"Yes. Came on board, Trimmer did, searched the boat, and then declared I'd shipped George away until his visit should be over. So he and his friends—one of them the chief of police, by the way—sat down to wait for your return. Gad—I thought of you out in that rain. Sat and sat and sat. What could I do?"
"To Trimmer, the brute," said Paddock, raising his glass.
"Finally I had an idea. I had the boys pull up anchor and start the engines. Trimmer wanted to know the answer. 'Leaving for New York to-night,' I said. 'Want to come along?' He wasn't sure whether he would go or not, but his friends were sure they wouldn't. Put up an awful howl, and just before we got under way Mr. Trimmer and party crawled into their rowboat and splashed back to San Marco."
"Well—what now?" asked Minot.
"I've made up my mind," said Wall. "Been intending to go back north for some time, and now that I've started, I guess I'll keep on going."
"Splendid," cried Minot. "And you'll take Mr. George Harrowby with you?"
Mr. Wall seemed in excellent spirits. He slapped Minot on the back.
"If you say so, of course. Don't know exactly what they can do to us—but I think George needs the sea air. How about it, your lordship?"
Poor old George, drooping as he had never drooped before, looked wearily into Wall's eyes.
"What's the use?" he said. "Fight's all gone out of me. Losing interest in what's next. Three hours on that blooming ocean with the rain soaking in—I'm going to bed. I don't care what becomes of me."